Nicotine Stain
by TheKillingJar
Summary: In which shotgunning a cigarette leads to something beautiful. Christophe/Pete *spelling errors fixed*


_"It's just a habit when I reach to the packet_

 _For my last cigarette, until the day breaks_

 _Then my hand shakes_

 _But, but, but, but, but, but_

 _It's just driving me insane_

 _When the smoke gets in my brain I can't resist it"_

 _~Nicotine Stain, Siouxsie and the Banshees_

* * *

Peter shuffled through the snow from his best friend's house at nearly four in the morning. Ordinarily, he would have just spent the night - despite it being a school night - but there were chores to be done in his little trailer home. He blew them off as long as he dared and really did not want to hear his mother bitch about it. Thus, as soon as Michael emitted a faint snore Pete bid an unnoticed farewell and showed himself out.

The lighter between his fingers felt almost heavy, he blamed sleep deprivation. Pete sort of wished he woke Michael up and asked for a ride. The older boy even offered before he fell asleep. However, he felt that he had grown to dependent on his tall friend ever since he got a car. Plus he never even paid for gas.

Not to mention the that old bastard of a car would have surely woken up Michael's parents.

 _"Gods his parents are such dicks."_ Best to let (evil) sleeping dogs lie.

With a clove - which he scored from Henrietta...who probably beat up a theatre kid for it - he took a much needed drag. Content, he watched as grey tendrils went up into the indigo sky.

" 'Ey!" A rough voice caught his attention. "Mind eef I bum one of zose from you?" Pete looked to his side to see a face he vaguely recognised. A classmate, perhaps?

"Sorry. This is my last one."

The tan boy sighed in frustration and nearly left without a word another word.

"W-wait! We can share this one...If you want." He stammered, heat raised to his face. Never was he so direct but there was something about the gruff voice and smooth accent that made Pete dislike the idea of such a hastey departure.

The other boy blinked. "I'd appreeciate zat, zank you."

"Yeah, I'll shotgun it." He tapped his finger against the fag to rid it of excess ash, turned it around, and slid it into his mouth. Careful to avoid the heat, his tongue kept it in place against the roof of his mouth as he blew out.

The mystery boy took the exposed filter into his own mouth and took a long, deep drag. His eyes slowly closed in bliss. All the while Pete surveyed the face but a few inches away from his own. Mussed hair the color of coffee before creamer was added. Faint scars of pinks and whites. Prominent bags under his eyes along with pre-mature crows feet.

When the boy pulled away he offered a smile that came out as more of a grimace. "Zanks."

"A-anytime." With that the two boys parted ways.

* * *

A few weeks passed without the unknown boy making another appearance.

In the dead of night Peter was seated on the bench by Stark's Pond. He considered calling his friends, if only to get a light for the Virginia Slim that hung from his lips. Damn.

 _"Cheap as fuck lighter."_ He barely got it a couple days ago and it was already out of juice. All he wanted after getting off his night shift from Tweak Bros. Coffee House was a smoke. The world was against him.

"Looks like you could use a light, _mon petit ami_." The same gruff voice rang in his ears. The boy sat beside him.

Pete exhaled heavily through his nose. "If I don't get one I might just drown myself in the pond."

The Frenchman chuckled. "'Ere." He reached into his pocket, his eyes widened a bit as his fingers fiddled around. "Eet seems I've lost my ligh'zer. Fuck!"

Pete snorted. "Thankfully you already lit one." He leant toward the lit cigarette clenched between the other boy's teeth. He took the hint. He leaned and pressed his burning tip to the tip of Pete's cigarette.

Silence over took them as they waited for Pete's to take the heat. The goth couldn't help but notice the position they were in was reminiscent of a kiss. It certainly would've been a very goth way of showing affection.

When the deed was done his new acquaintance moved back and he followed suit.

The silence returned. It was an odd silence, not comfortable as it was amongst his friends, but it wasn't entirely bad. Maybe he just was not used to the other's presense.

"So, ah, you got a name?" The words were akward, a clear broadcast of his unfamiliarity with small talk.

"My eessociates call me "Ze Mole"", Pete blinked, "But you may call me Christophe."

"Pete." The boy - _Christophe_ \- grunted.

Quiet crept upon them again as they smoked. Pete sniffed. Words were never his thing. All of his friends could practically read eachothers minds. So he swallowed all of his inhibitions, exhaled smoke through his nose, and lightly grazed his fingers along a few faded scars on Christophe's face.

Christophe instantly went rigid and eyed Pete with extreme caution. Pete tilted his head in curiousity before he withdrew his hand. Quickly, he flipped his bangs from his face in an attempt to ignore the rush of blood there.

"Zey are from my work." A scowl ate at his features. "Zey are everyzwere."

"Hardcore."

The Mole only raised a thick eyebrow before a throaty chuckle escaped him.

"And 'ow!" Another chuckle. "Unlike your cigarette. Eets pretty girly."

"Yeah..." He didn't take it as an insult. Pete knew very well it was a girl's brand, but goths don't conform to gender norms.

"Eet suits you, zough. Your 'ands are very _petit_ and slender."

Peter coughed on the smoke in his lungs. "Er, thanks." There was no way he could ignore the blush in his cheecks now.

Christophe took one last powerful drag before he threw the filter into the snow. He stood and ground it beneath his boot.

"Well I'm off. _Au revoir_."

"Bye." Pete watched him leave, transfixed. Once he was out of sight he threw his head back and sighed the last of his cigarette. "I don't exist when you're not here." He hummed the song to himself.

* * *

"We 'ave to stop meeting like zis." He grinned.

Pete could only offer a lilliputian smile of his own.

"I'm the one who needs to bum the cigarette this time." A dramatic huff. "Fate, maybe."

"Fuck fate, fuck ze will of God." Pete merely raised a slim brow, not being very religious himself. "Ironic, zough. Zis eez my last one."

"Ironic indeed. Especially if we shotgunned again."

"Zen we will." Christophe took an extensive drag and pulled his cigarette from his mouth. Pete's brow furrowed in confusion when Christophe invaded his personal space.

Before he could even summon the courage to question the Frenchman's actions a set of chapped lips smashed upon his own.

Inicially he froze, but Christophe's tongue prodded against his lower lip and he automatically complied, welcoming him in. Tout de suite, the taller boy breathed into his mouth. Nicotine and a sort of ashy taste consumed him. Toxins he was well accustomed to filled his lungs, his whole being. Inhaled. Exhaled shackily through his nose. Tobacco and nicotine were certainly therapeutic.

He opened his eyes which he hadn't realised were even closed. Admist the haze of smoke he saw Christophe starring back at him. The surly boy had yet to remove himself from Pete, his moss green orbs filled with quary.

Shyly, he let his tongue explore the orifice pressed to his. Christophe responded with vigor. The two violently fought for dominance, possessing the same flavour.

Peter was the first to seperate.

"So...?"

Christophe grabbed his hands and held them. Subconciously, Pete's thumbs rubbed random little patterns and circles on the other's callused hands.

"So...We will be seeing a lot more of eacho'zere?"

Pete hummed. "I wouldn't mind that."

"Good," he grinned, "Come. I'll buy uz both a pack."

Those words were music to Pete's ears.

* * *

 _"Wallow in that ash bath_

 _Soaking up the fumes_

 _And see the nicotine stain_

 _Start to spread"_

 _~Nicotine Stain, Siouxsie and the Banshees_


End file.
